


Fractured, a Splintered remix

by Lissadiane



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: All sex all the time, Anal Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Edging, Enthusiastic Consent, Feltching, Fingering, Five Clints One Bucky, M/M, No selfcest though, Voyeurism, What Have I Done, Winterhawk Remix, but also so much consent, gentle!dom Bucky, porn porn porn, so much filth, what else what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24816175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissadiane/pseuds/Lissadiane
Summary: Clint touches something mystical at Dr. Strange's place and next thing Bucky knows, there are four extra Clints running around. He takes it upon himself to gather them up and help them come to some important realizations about the world. You know. Sexually.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 37
Kudos: 349
Collections: Winterhawk Remix 2020





	Fractured, a Splintered remix

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Splintered](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267683) by [flawedamythyst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst). 



> Listen. I was gearing up to write "CLINT GETS SOLD INTO MARRIAGE -- IN SPACE!!!" when a friend said, oh so innocently, "OR. OR!! You could remix that one with all the Buckys. Where all Clint wanted was an orgy. But he was too injured for the orgy. And you could give us that orgy."
> 
> So here we are. I remixed it a little more and decided to make five Clints instead of five Buckys and spent far too long plotting out sexual logistics so thank you to everyone who helped me brainstorm that.
> 
> Amy, your fic was gorgeous and so meaningful and deep and beautifully written. And it deserved so much better than 15,000 words of filth.
> 
> Important note: The Clints in this fic are all different ages but they are all over 20 years old and legal, consenting adults!
> 
> Written for the Winterhawk remix. Graciously cheerled by a few amazing people who I cannot reveal because it would ruin the anonymous part.

Bucky hasn’t been the Winter Soldier going on ten years now, but there are some instincts that will never fade, and knowing when he’s being followed is one of them.

His shadow is doing a pretty good job of staying back far enough, sticking to the thicker shadows, his footsteps hushed under the rainwater hitting the puddles. Anyone else might have missed it -- anyone else without enhanced hearing, without a level of paranoia embedded so deeply into his fucked up brain, wrapped around the scar tissue there.

But Bucky knows he’s there.

He doesn’t panic -- doesn’t outwardly react at all, just shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the rain, head ducked, watching his feet break up the reflections of the streetlight in the puddles.

And then the person following him gets cocky, gets a little too close, and Bucky sees the reflection of a weapon catching in the light, reflected in a shop window across the street.

He ducks into an alleyway, leaps easily up onto a fire escape, crouching low.

No one ever thinks to look up.

Seconds later, someone rounds the corner too quickly, slipping a little on the wet pavement, face hidden in shadows, something familiar about the line of his shoulders.

And just as Bucky drops down on him, he _looks up_ and Bucky gets a good look at his face…

And then they collide.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Bucky snaps, startled and confused and not fighting back at all as he’s flipped over and smashed into the ground, arms pinned by familiar thighs.

There’s an arrow nocked and pointed at his throat and a rueful, vaguely apologetic smirk on lips that he knows just about as well as he knows his own.

“It’s nothing personal,” Clint says, and it sure as fuck is.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Bucky asks, but he’s studying Clint’s face. The shadows are dark and slippery and even with his enhanced vision, he can’t quite figure out what it is that feels off.

“Miss the chance to take out the Winter Soldier?” Clint asks with an easy shrug that somehow doesn’t throw off his aim at all. “Sorry, buddy. There’s a huge price on your head and I’m low on cash.”

His words are just as off as the lines of his face and Bucky says, “I know I’m late but I didn’t think it would piss you off this much.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Clint says, “I think you’ve got me confused with someone else, asshole. I’m Hawkeye and the bounty for taking you in dead is the same as alive, so maybe cooperate a little bit here.”

“If I wasn’t cooperating, you’d know it. And I know who you are,” Bucky tells him and Clint’s entire face brightens -- highlighted by the headlights of the car driving by the mouth of the alley.

And that’s when Bucky realizes this is more fucked up than he thought.

“You’ve heard of me?” Clint asks, sounding all at once young and not half as cocky and self-assured as he’s been trying so hard to appear. The arrow at Bucky’s throat shifts, just the tiniest bit, and Bucky takes advantage of it.

He lunges up, knocking Clint off his chest and sending him sprawling on the wet pavement. Before Clint can recover, Bucky’s got him pinned in a chokehold. Clint struggles but Bucky’s got thirty pounds of muscle and decades of experience on him and holds tightly until Clint goes limp.

Bucky lays him down carefully and says, grim, “It’s nothing personal.”

Then he gets up, pulls out his phone, and dials.

“Buck, what the fuck,” Clint says when he answers, sounding amused and warm and somewhat distracted. Probably playing pool while he waits. “You’re late.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nudging the unconscious body at his feet. “I’ve got a situation. I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”

“Are you hurt?” Clint asks, suddenly giving his whole attention. “Where are you?”

Bucky’s only a few blocks from the bar where Clint’s waiting, so he gives his location and says, “Bring some rope, if you’ve got it.”

“Sure,” Clint says. “Because I bring rope with me on Date Night.”

The thing is, sometimes he does.

*

“What the fuck,” Clint says, when he arrives a few minutes later. “What the absolute fucking fuck is that.”

“It’s you,” Bucky tells him. “But younger. Wanted to take the Winter Soldier in because he’s short on cash and there’s a price on my head.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Clint says again, punctuating it this time with a kick to the unconscious body.

When Tony’s town car arrives, they shove the fake Clint into the trunk and climb into the back seat for the ride back to Manhattan.

On the way there, Clint babbles nervously. “I just want you to know,” he says. “That dude’s gotta be a skrull or something because even when I was an assassin with a really fucked up moral code, there’s no fucking way I’d ever have turned you in for a bounty. Even when I was poor as fuck. I promise. And certainly not _now_ , you’ve gotta believe me.”

“I believe you,” Bucky says, but it’s hard to keep up with Clint’s anxiety spiral when he’s got another version of Clint hogtied in the trunk.

“Maybe he’s a clone,” Clint says, chewing at his bottom lip and his fingernails, every anxious tell he’s got. “Maybe it’s some sort of tech. Maybe Tony could --”

Bucky breathes out carefully and slides his arm around Clint’s shoulders, dragging him up close and holding tightly. “Hey,” he says, quiet. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure this out.”

He can feel Clint’s anxiety and tension drain away, slow and steady. They’ve been doing this for five years now and Bucky’s never really gotten over the fact that sometimes, being close to Bucky is the only thing that can calm Clint’s anxiety down. It was a startling thing to realize, back in the beginning, when Bucky was still coming out of being the Winter Soldier and convinced that no one in the world would be safe if they got too close.

“Yeah,” Clint says, quiet.

In the trunk, the other Clint starts hollering.

*

Bruce, Tony and Tony’s army of science and medical staff run just about every test on the other Clint and at the end of it all, all Bruce can say is, “Technically, functionally, he’s -- he’s Clint. On a molecular level, he and Clint are identical.” He hesitates a moment, looking at Tony who is turning the coffee maker on despite the fact that it’s nearly dawn.

“So -- so a clone then,” Clint says, sitting on the counter.

“Yes,” Bruce says, but he doesn’t sound sure.

“Sort of,” Tony adds, grimacing. “A little bit.”

Bucky growls. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means he’s younger,” Tony tells them, idly flipping a screwdriver as he talks, a nervous tell of his own. “Physically, he’s younger, but not a younger clone, exactly.” He shrugs. “From what we can tell, he’s got Clint’s memories. His experiences. Up to a point.”

“Up to _what_ point?” Clint asks, eyes wide. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“He didn’t know me,” Bucky says.

“Up to about twenty-five. From what we can tell.”

“Aww, shit,” Clint mumbles, hopping off the counter he’s been sitting on. “Shit, I was such an asshole then.”

“Pre-SHIELD,” Tony adds helpfully. “What were you, assassin for hire?”

Clint wrinkles his nose. “It doesn’t matter. How did it happen? How do we fix it?”

“He’s got some sort of radiation trace,” Bruce says. “It’s something I’ve never seen before but we’re tracing it. Do you have any idea how this could have happened?”

“Everything’s been fine. I’ve been fine. As far as I know, no one’s made any fucked up clones of me,” Clint says. “It’s been boring as fuck lately.”

“No strange encounters in the sewers with glowy green goo and crime fighting turtles?” Tony asks. “No run-ins with big bads wielding mysterious weapons? No --”

“Nothing,” Clint says.

“He touched something at Dr. Strange’s place last week,” Bucky says, though at the time, he’d promised not to tell. 

“Oh. Right.” Clint grimaces, shooting Bucky a betrayed look. “Yeah, that happened. And it was green and glowy too.”

Bruce sighs, suddenly looking tired. “That would have been good to know, Clint. I’ll be in the lab.”

He grabs a clipboard on his way out of the kitchen just as Tony pours a huge mug of the coffee, leaving it dark. Usually he doctors it with more sugar than anyone else could drink without gagging.

“How is he?” Clint asks, crossing his arms over his chest, looking uncomfortable and exhausted. Bucky kinda wants to throw him over his shoulder and drag him off to bed, maybe tuck him in and keep him there until he’s slept off the dark circles under his eyes, but last time he did that, Clint got pissed, so he manages to resist. 

“Other Clint?” Tony asks, shrugging. “Fine. Bitching. Cursing up a storm. Offering his first born child in exchange for this mug of coffee.” He raises the mug in a solemn salute. “Basically you, but, you know.” He waves his free hand as he walks out of the kitchen. “Looks like he’s slept sometime in the past week.”

“I’ve slept,” Clint grumbles, rolling his eyes and eyeing the coffee pot. “I should--”

Bucky holds his hand out and says, “I haven’t. Come to bed with me.”

It’s a little bit gratifying that the idea of going to bed with Bucky is enough to draw Clint’s eyes away from the coffee left in the pot.

“Oh,” Clint says, drifting closer, looking dead on his feet. He slips his hand into Bucky’s and holds tight, smiling brightly. “‘Course, Buck. You must be exhausted. C’mon.”

Bucky lets Clint tug him towards the elevator like it’s his idea and, ten minutes later, Clint is sleeping like the dead, starfished on the bed and snoring softly, and Bucky’s staring up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s gonna do with two Clints.

*

“I remember him,” Natasha hums, thoughtful, as she watches the younger Clint pace his containment cell through a one-sided pane of glass.

“It wasn’t my best look,” Clint says grimly, watching as his younger self tries desperately not to look like he’s losing his shit. There’s a cocky angle to his shoulders and the way he holds his mouth and Bucky recognizes those same tells in the Clint he knows -- signs that he’s nervous and trying desperately to play it cool.

It’s a little endearing but Bucky does his best not to get attached. There’s no way he comes out of this getting to keep two Clints. Besides, the clone or whatever the fuck he is has to be some evil plan or something. A trojan horse. A distraction.

Nothing good will come of this.

Beside him, his Clint is getting more and more disgusted by his younger self. “He keeps eyeing the vents like he thinks it’s a viable escape route,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Where does he think he is? This isn’t some Hydra compound, he’s not getting out of there.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Natasha says, amused. “You were pretty good at wiggling your way out of trouble back then.”

“What are we going to do?” Clint asks. “How do we send him back where he came from?”

“Steve’s gone to have a chat with Strange. Bruce and Tony are busy in the lab. Worst case scenario, two Clints.” She shrugs. “Could be worse.”

Clint shoots Bucky a strange look he can’t quite decipher and says, “But I’m the real one.” There’s a beat of silence. “Aren’t I? I mean, I feel like the real Clint, but so does he. What if I’m the clone and he’s--”

Natasha’s cell rings, cutting him off, and she answers it briskly. “Be right there,” she says, all business, and Bucky instantly wants to know what it is, what he can do, how he can help, who needs him.

In the confinement cell, though, the other Clint starts trying to wrench the leg off the chair to use as a weapon and he realizes that whatever’s happening, he’s got two Clints that need him here. One going nuts in a cell, the other having an existential crisis.

“Gotta go, security breach at SHIELD,” she says, already on her way out the door. She tosses Bucky a hard look and points at Clint -- Bucky’s Clint -- and says, “Deal with that.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but of course he will. 

Clint opens his mouth, probably to start worrying that he’s only a fraction of himself again, that when this is all over, he’ll be gone, but the thing is, Bucky knows his Clint like he knows how to breathe, so he backs him up against the glass wall and, once he’s got Clint’s attention, smiles, slow and dirty.

“Don’t this feel real?” he asks, his voice low, rough. He sees the way Clint can’t help but swallow shakily, tipping his head back, baring his throat to Bucky’s mouth.

“Yeah, Buck,” Clint says, breathy. “Okay.”

Bucky doesn’t have the words to convince Clint that everything’ll be fine -- that Clint is real and true and Bucky ain’t ever gonna let him go.

But he resolves to do his best to show him with his hands and his mouth and his tongue.

On the other side of the glass wall behind Clint’s back, baby assassin Clint stares straight at the window like maybe he can see through it, eyes narrow as he sips the coffee Tony brought him.

It sends a shiver up Bucky’s spine but he kinda likes it.

*

Natasha calls two hours later. Bucky’s got Clint tired out, pleased and sleepy as they watch The Great British Bake Off, tucked up with Bucky’s arm around his shoulder, and Bucky answers his phone with his free hand.

“You busy?” she asks, and he kinda is.

“What’s up?”

“That security breach at SHIELD,” she says, all casual in a way that sets him on edge. “A bit of a situation. Clint with you?”

“Which one?” he asks, only half sarcastic.

“That’s the thing,” she says. “It’s another one.”

“Another what?”

“Another Clint.”

Clint must feel the sudden tension in Bucky’s body because he sits up, squinting at him and rubbing at his bedhead, suspicious, but Bucky just gets up, waving him off and going into the other room.

“What the fuck do you mean?” he asks.

“It’s another Clint and this one’s really fucked up.” She hesitates and that’s when Bucky knows that whatever it is, it’s bad. “He’s twenty-nine,” she says finally.

“Twenty-nine.” Bucky’s doing the math and then he sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck,” he breathes. “Loki.”

“Yeah.” She sounds grim, distracted and a little breathless, and there are voices in the background, a little frantic. “I’m fine,” she snaps at someone. “It’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” Bucky asks her. “Nothing’s fucking fine.”

He’s grabbing a sweater and his keys, heading for the door, and Lucky’s following, tail wagging lazily. Clint’s never at his best when interrupted from a near-nap, so he’s still curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over his shoulders, suspicious and quiet and trying to gather the mental capacity to figure this out.

“Stabbed,” she says. “A little. In medical. He was -- needed a mental recalibration is all. They’ve got him in holding. Get Tony to set up transport to the tower. He’s not theirs. And he’s going to need us.”

“He’s not real,” Bucky reminds her.

“His knife sure felt fucking real.”

Bucky hangs up and says to Clint, “I’ll be back.”

“Fuck you,” Clint mumbles, stumbling off the couch. “You’re not leaving me.”

*

“What the fuck,” Clint says, shaken and pale. They’re watching the surveillance footage of the security breach, and even in the footage, the eerie way the other Clint’s eyes glow blue is hard to miss. Bucky sort of wants to stomp down to medical and give the guy another mental recalibration just for the way Clint’s breathing is going all shaky beside him as he watches the guy with his face on the screen take out six SHIELD agents without hesitation.

They’re all injured but nobody’s dead, thank fuck.

“He’s contained,” Tony says, sounding exhausted as he steps into the room. He probably hasn’t slept, obsessing over the first sort-of-clone, and now this. “Unconscious. Judging from last time, he’ll wake up in a few hours with a massive headache and an even bigger guilt complex.”

“Fuck,” Clint says under his breath, and Bucky takes his hand, holding firm. He’s not quite ready when Clint rallies, though, and says, “How many more do you think there are?”

Because fuck. Fuck, if there are two, there are probably more. More Clints, running loose in New York City, causing who the fuck knows what sort of damage.

And the thing is, Loki-Clint is an evil, brainwashed asshole who’s causing Bucky’s Clint untold levels of stress, sure, and baby-assassin Clint tried to take him in for a bounty, yeah. But underneath it all, they’re all pieces of Clint and Bucky has been completely fucked for Clint for nearly a decade and if there are broken off splinters of Clint lost and alone in New York City, well.

Bucky’s gonna want to find them all and gather them up like rogue, pain-in-the-ass ducklings and bring them home and keep them safe.

“Steve says it was the time stone,” Tony tells them, downing half a mug of coffee and frowning at the security footage. “Because you never do things by halves, do you, Hawkguy. Couldn’t touch the coffee machine or the air conditioner, had to be the motherfucking time stone.” He shakes his head, more amused than judgemental, and says, “Strange is running some diagnostics on the stone, will report back when he knows anything, says not to panic. Apparently temporal splits are common and usually work themselves out.”

“Don’t panic,” Clint says, sarcastic. “There are an untold number of copies of me running amuck and I’m supposed to stay calm because it’ll work itself out. Sure.”

“Sir,” JARVIS says suddenly. “I have that facial recognition report you asked for.”

“J, we talked about this,” Tony says, hopping up to sit on the edge of the desk, taking a snappy bite out of an apple. “I would never ask you to hack into government security networks to run unapproved facial recognition programs.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS says, long-suffering, even as the facial recognition feeds take over the security feeds they’d been watching earlier.

“I found two subjects with Agent Barton’s face, both in New York City.”

“Excellent,” Tony says, even as beside Bucky, Clint starts cursing under his breath. Two more Clints? “We can split up, round them both up, have them contained by dinner time. And where are they?”

“Prison,” JARVIS says promptly. “Sir.”

“Prison,” Clint echoes, pale.

“One stands accused of trespassing and the other… theft of property under $5,000. Larceny. Pickpocketing. Driving without a license. Assaulting an officer of the law.”

“Oh fuck,” Clint says, and at first, Bucky thinks he’s horrified about his criminal record. Then he sees the face on the screen. “Oh shit, oh fuck. Don’t look, Bucky. Don’t look.”

Because it’s unmistakably Clint. It’s his nose -- a little less broken perhaps -- and his chin and his forehead and his eyes.

But the thing is, while he’s not a kid, he’s young and flexible and he’s wearing grease paint and sequins.

The Amazing Fucking Hawkeye.

The other Clint, in the same damned holding cell, is slumped against the wall, exhausted and weary, hair standing up in wild, unkempt spikes. There are dark circles under his eyes and a bandaid across his nose.

He looks so, so tired, head tipped back. Eyes closed. Entirely oblivious to The Amazing Hawkeye, who’s doing lazy handstands in the middle of the cell and, from the looks of it, mouthing off all the police officers in hearing range.

“Let’s go bail them out,” Bucky says, grim.

“Maybe we can leave them in there,” Clint suggests hopefully.

Tony’s already laughing his ass off.

*

Bucky wasn’t around for Loki and the aftermath and sometimes he thinks that’s probably for the best. He’s heard about what happened, he’s seen Clint in the grips of nightmares, and he’d probably have lost his shit if he had to witness it firsthand. 

The version of Clint who’d infiltrated SHIELD under Loki’s influence is in medical, sedated and handcuffed to a hospital bed in an abundance of caution, and Bucky -- well, he’s gotten pretty used to spending his time in the medical wing hovering over Clint’s bed and even if this isn’t _his_ Clint, he can’t find it in himself to stay away.

The bruises from Natasha’s fist are a vivid splash of colour against his pale face and Bucky is very carefully repressing the violent echo of the Winter Soldier that keeps trying to insist he do something to punish her for hurting Clint.

Steve appears suddenly, much quieter than he should be for his side, and he hands Bucky a cup of coffee before looking down at Clint for a moment.

“He was a bit of a mess after Loki,” Steve says finally.

“Still is sometimes,” Bucky tells him.

Steve nods in acknowledgement and then says, “Tests are all coming back negative for any sort of manipulation or anything. As far as science, medicine and magic are concerned, these aren’t echoes, aren’t reflections, aren’t clones. They’re just… Clint. Versions of Clint.”

“How conclusive is that?” Bucky’s not all that sure even Tony’s science gadgets and medical team are cut out to tell whether or not these four extra Clints are actual people or just shadows.

It hurts Bucky’s brain just thinking about it.

“Who knows.” There’s a beat of silence. “But Clint -- our Clint -- has a plan.”

Bucky finally turns away from Clint on the bed and looks at him. “A plan,” he says flatly. Clint’s plans have a habit of not working out. “What sort of a plan?”

Steve grimaces. “I’m not sure. He said, ‘I know how we can figure this out. Wait here.’ And then he left.”

“And you just… let him?” Bucky’s already on his way out of the room, finishing his coffee in one long swallow.

“I came to get you,” Steve says reproachfully. “Besides, you know as well as I do that he’s smart and capable and if anyone has a right to help figure this shit out --”

“He’s compromised,” Bucky snaps. “He’s freaking the fuck out. Whatever plan he has is probably a self-sacrifice play that’ll end up with at least one more Barton in the hospital and I can only watch over one at a goddamn time.”

Steve grimaces but stays quiet as he follows Bucky back to the holding cells.

And Bucky was right, of course. It’s a self-sacrifice play, but not the kind he was imagining.

Tony’s gotten rid of the walls between each cell, so the three versions of Clint are now in one room, eyeing each other warily. Circus Clint is up in the rafters, hanging from his knees, sequins glittering even in the fluorescent lighting, and pre-SHIELD assassin is up there too, crouched in the darkest corner like some sort of gargoyle. The other Clint, the tired one, is curled up on the floor in the corner, one knee hugged to his chest, the other leg stretched out, taking small, measured sips of coffee like he’s rationing it out, unsure of when he’ll be given more. He’s watching the other two with a tired lack of interest that hurts Bucky to look at.

He knows all those expressions, is the thing. He knows the cocky smirk on circus Clint’s face, the careful glare on pre-SHIELD Clint’s face, the exhaustion on tired Clint with the bandaid across his nose.

And he knows the grim, carefully blank look on his Clint’s face as he stands there and says, “Open the door.”

But before he can react and stop whatever plan Clint’s put into motion, Tony opens the door… and Clint kneels down, whispers something in Lucky’s ear, and unclips his leash.

Lucky dashes into the room like a thunderbolt, barking happily and the reaction on all three Clints is instantaneous. Pre-Shield Clint slides down out of the rafters on silent feet with a hesitant smile and circus Clint lets go and falls in a crash of glittering limbs with an excited cry.

It’s the other Clint, though, the one that’s barely a fraction of the rest, whose reaction makes Bucky want to punch something. He makes a sound in the back of his throat, a wounded, soft sound, and drops his coffee like he doesn’t give a fuck about it anymore.

“Lucky,” he says, getting to his knees as Lucky barrels over to him. “Lucky, I was _looking_ for you,” that Clint says, shaken and catching Lucky in his arms, holding the wiggly, excited dog against his chest as Lucky bathes his face in kisses.

Bucky’s Clint is still standing grimly at the door, watching the scene as the other two Clints come over to meet the dog. He looks at Bucky and says, “Yeah. They’re all me. They’re real.”

And doesn’t that just complicate things?

*

They can’t keep the other Clints in holding cells. It doesn’t feel right. So instead, they send in a team of psychologists to try to explain to the other Clints what’s happening before releasing them into the custody of the Avengers on the communal floor. The one affected by Loki wakes up and, as far as Bruce can tell, is free of Loki’s influence, so he joins them as well, eating Froot Loops and watching Dog Cops and looking twitchy and miserable and small.

It’s awkward and weird and there are five fucking Clints and Bucky had his hands full with just one.

His Clint is staying close -- Bucky would almost call it hovering. He’s quiet and watchful in a way that reminds Bucky of the way he gets when missions are going wrong. It’s the most worrisome part of all of this.

“Hey,” Bucky says finally, quiet and low, meant just for Clint -- his Clint, anyway. He jerks his chin at Circus Clint, who’s out of the sparkling spandex at least, but is wearing a pair of current Clint’s shorts that are way too big and a Black Widow sweater that’s bigger, falling off one shoulder.

He’s also a ball of frantic energy and currently channelling that energy into doing a frankly incredible acrobatic display near the windows.

Current Clint looks away from Loki Clint and blinks at him, offering a belated and lopsided smile. “Yeah?”

“Can you still bend that way?” Bucky asks with a smirk, jerking his chin at circus Clint as he lands a complicated hands-free backflip as easily as breathing.

Amusement lights up Clint’s entire face and he rolls his eyes. “I’ll give you a demonstration some time,” he says, and Bucky slides closer.

“Yeah?” he asks, rough. “I’d pay to see that.”

Before Current Clint can reply, Circus Clint -- who, all things considered, is kinda bratty, says, “Why pay him, Barnes, when you can watch me for free?”

Bucky looks over his shoulder at Circus Clint -- can’t help it, really -- and finds him lazily standing on his hands, back arched, somehow keeping his balance. Shouldn’t be physically possible, really.

He should look ridiculous with his sweater bunched all up under his arms but all it does is give Bucky a nice glimpse of his abs -- he’s always loved Clint’s abs and performing in the circus has apparently given him a sleek, strong core that’s different than he’s got now. And Bucky can’t help but wonder how differently it would feel under his tongue.

“You were such a brat,” Bucky says, and when he looks back at Current Clint, it’s to find him watching Bucky instead of his younger self, with a careful, considering look in his eyes that he hides with a smirk. 

“Daddy issues,” he says. 

“Fuck you,” Circus Clint says, but he’s laughing even as he loses his balance and falls to the floor in a tangle of limbs like a puppy still growing into his paws. He bounces up with an ease that Bucky can’t help but envy. Fuck, he misses being young.

“Besides,” Circus Clint says. “If you two are sneaking off for a private show, you better take me, because I can’t fucking stand being in a room with these sad sacks.” He gestures broadly to the three other Clints and then says, “Well, that one’s okay.”

‘That one,’ apparently, is Baby Assassin Clint, who is almost as much of an asshole but differently. It’s less brash and showy but there in the way he tries so hard to pretend he’s in constant control of himself and those around him. He hasn’t got half the hardened edges that Current Clint, Loki Clint or Disaster Clint have, but he doesn’t realize the value that’s come from those sorts of lessons.

But he’s got a point about the other two. Loki Clint is a shaking mess, jumping at sudden movements and startling at sharp noises from the TV. He’s curled up around himself and hiding beneath the hood of a hoodie Bucky found for him in the back of his closet -- worn soft and too big and perfect for the days when being visible is too much for him.

And Disaster Clint is sprawled on the floor with Lucky draped over him, looking checked out and pale. He’s had about seventeen cups of coffee so far and keeps asking questions no one really wants to think about, like “Where do we go when this is over?” and “How do we know who the real Clint is,” and shooting Current Clint confused glances, like he can’t quite figure out how to get from the miserable place he is now to the happier place Current Clint was lucky enough to find.

Bucky doesn’t know how to help any of them.

But he knows how to help _his_ Clint who is jittery and anxious and trying to hide it. A quick round of dirty sex would probably settle him, but he’s not sure Clint’ll be up for that in a highrise filled with other younger and bendier versions of himself.

So barring that…

“Hey, Barton,” he says, sliding up next to where Current Clint is hovering over a half finished pizza in the kitchen overlooking the lounge. “You wanna hit the gym?”

Clint blinks at him and settles against him with an ease it took Bucky about six months to coax him into. “Oh, fuck yes,” he sighs, sliding an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “But is that the best idea with… you know. Our current company?”

“What,” Circus Clint asks, gracefully dismounting from what had been an increasingly more difficult handstand. He shakes out his shoulder and smirks. “Afraid we’ll show you up, old man?”

Baby Assassin Clint rolls his eyes and says, “I don’t know about the rest of these assholes, but you couldn’t show me up if you tried.”

They’ve been going at it like that since Bucky’d let them out of the holding cells and to be honest, the constant bickering over who’s a better version of Clint Barton is only slightly less irritating than the other two Clint copies who seem caught up in a contest of who’s the biggest fuck up.

All versions of Clint Barton are fucking spectacular, and while Bucky’d taken his time showing his Clint how spectacular he is, he’s pretty sure he isn’t gonna have that sort of timeline with these other Clints. Not with Strange, Tony, Steve and Natasha all hellbent on putting the Clints back where they came from.

Bucky kinda thinks it might be helpful for all of them to stick around for a while so he can teach them some goddamn self-control or self-confidence or whatever the fuck else they need to learn before they’re gone, but. Well. If he doesn’t have the time to ease them into it… maybe he’s gotta beat it into them instead.

He pushes away from the counter and says, light and easy and without any hint of how much he’s itching to get his hands on all four Clint copies, “I don’t give a fuck how easy you can show each other up, because none of you have got shit on me.”

There’s a general outcry, even Disaster Clint lets go of Lucky enough to roll his eyes and get to his feet but it’s Loki Clint who says, “Lead the way then, asshole.”

Bucky’s Clint just hides a smirk and slips his hand into Bucky’s and says, quietly, “They’ve got no idea what they’re in for.”

He grabs some popcorn on the way through the kitchen.

*

It’s safe to say that the gym exceeds everyone’s expectations, even Asshole Baby Assassin Clint, who spent the entire elevator ride trash-talking the tower and Jarvis and Bucky and all the other Clints, even Circus Clint, who was too busy making good use of the mirrored walls to inspect his tumbling form to really care.

His self-involvement disappeared beneath an excited cry when he saw the obstacle course, filled with things to jump, climb and swing from, and he was gone before Bucky could even think to try corralling him into some contest of skill to put him in his proper place and shut his smart mouth up.

It was for the best, he decides a moment later, because Asshole Clint can probably use his attention the most right now, since he is the one whose comments are cutting and sharp in a way that the youngest Clint hasn’t quite mastered yet.

They are all Clint in some form or other, and Bucky will protect each one of them as best he can until he dies… but he isn’t gonna sit around and let this asshole make any of the others look haunted and hurt.

“Guns,” Bucky says, jerking his head at the shooting range. “Let’s do some shooting. You in?”

His Clint grins around a mouthful of popcorn and says, “Not gonna lie, Buck, this is like a wet dream come to life and I’m gonna watch from over there --” he points to his favourite spot up in the rafters -- “to get the best view. Okay?”

Bucky rolls his eyes but grins, even as Loki Clint eyes the rafters and says, “Shouldn’t be around weapons.”

Current Clint shrugs and says, “C’mon up then, I’ll share the popcorn.”

Bucky knows that sometimes, Clint still has nightmares about what Loki did to him. He also knows that sometimes, when Clint wakes up screaming from them, getting him somewhere high, with good sightlines, so he can calm down and make sure he can see any threat before it reaches him, is the only way to calm him down. And from the way Loki Clint is staring up at the rafters, maybe it’ll be the same for him.

“Gonna stay with Lucky,” Disaster Clint announces, pointing at the pile of thick, cozy mats in the corner. “Over there. But I’m definitely gonna watch because I want Barnes to destroy you.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t remember being such an asshole, I probably owe Natasha a billion favours for not shooting me when she first met me.”

“I’m not an asshole,” Asshole Baby Assassin Clint says, scowling. “You’re just jealous because--”

“Pick your goddamn weapon,” Bucky says, sharp in a way that Assassin Clint instantly responds to. It’s a bit gratifying to see how these versions of Clint are just as eager to do as Bucky says.

Clint picks a bow and Bucky lets it go, even as he grabs his favourite rifle. He’s got an advantage here and he knows it -- he and his version of Clint have had so many shooting competitions, especially when they were first getting to know each other, back when they thought the tension between them was animosity meant to be worked out in combat rather than, well. The bedroom. The kitchen. The shower. The back of some of Tony’s roomier sports cars. Various safe houses. The locker room. On one memorable occasion, the back of a jet. And a conference table after a really fucking boring meeting where Clint kept sending him texts detailing all the things he’d rather be doing.

The point is that Bucky knows how Clint shoots and knows how to throw him off his game.

And from the shit-eating grin that his Clint, already perched up in the rafters and sharing popcorn with Loki Clint, has on his face, he knows what’s coming.

Bucky instructs Jarvis to set up some targets, some stationary, some moving, some close and some far, and to dim the lights -- not too far. He knows Clint can see well, even in the dark, but he doesn’t wanna disrupt the show.

And then he loads his rifle and, easy as breathing, annihilates the first target, straight through the bullseye, without looking. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on Clint, who’s testing the tension in his bow string and sorting through his arrows like he’s not impressed, not itching to play with Current Clint’s favourite toys.

Bucky knows how much his Clint loves that bow, this range, those arrows. Not even the biggest asshole version of Clint Barton is gonna be able to do anything other than get hopelessly turned on by this entire fucking thing.

Bucky’s kind of counting on that.

“You ready?” he asks, keeping his voice light and silky.

Clint shoots him a narrow-eyed look and then, so fast, Bucky nearly can’t see him move at all, he fires three arrows simultaneously and shreds a moving target.

Bucky grins at him, all teeth, and says, “Almost as good when you were a kid as you are now.”

“I’m not a kid,” Asshole Clint says, sullen, and Circus Clint drops down from the ceiling where he’d been climbing and crosses his arms across his chest.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me either. And I bet I’m a better shot than both of you. Let me try.”

“Wait your turn,” Bucky says, sharp in a way that makes Circus Clint go still, his breath catching.

Clint always tries so hard to be good.

Asshole Clint tries shooting again, but the thing is, he’s good -- amazing, even -- but he’s not _quite_ as good as Bucky’s Clint, which means he’s not quite as good as Bucky is, and Bucky keeps pointing it out. Calmly, quietly, standing just a little too close, and it’s a bit gratifying to hear the effect his closeness has on Clint’s breathing. His focus.

Bucky’s Clint has pretty much mastered the art of blocking Bucky out when Bucky’s trying to be distracting -- Bucky’s gotta go as far as shoving his hand down Clint’s pants to get any sort of reaction, or sometimes, shoving a hand down his own goddamn pants.

But this Clint is younger and not at all use to Bucky or Bucky being near and Bucky can see the goosebumps run up his skin when he stands too close behind him and says, quiet and chiding, “You’re not concentrating.”

He also sees the way Clint’s shoulders and his back tense up, fucking up his stance the tiniest bit.

“Fuck you,” Clint says. “I’m concentrating.”

He looses an arrow and it slams into the target just a quarter of an inch off the bullseye and no one else would have noticed, but Bucky does and he knows that every other Clint in the building notices, including the one in front of him who is a ball of nerves and tension.

He spins around, dropping the bow and shoving Bucky’s chest with both hands, snarling, “Fuck you, I’m fucking concentrating, I’m the best goddamn shot in the world, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Barnes. The Winter Soldier has nothing on me, I coulda taken you out half a dozen times in that alley.”

Bucky lifts an eyebrow and says, easy, “You wanna fight, Barton?”

“Ooh,” Circus Clint breathes. “I wanna fight. Let’s go, Barnes. Me and you, in the ring, I’ll let you put your hands wherever you want.”

“I said,” Bucky says, just as calm, just as easy. “Wait your fucking turn.”

And Circus Clint falls back on his heels, off-balance for the first time, eyes going a little dark as he bites his bottom lip, trying to look unaffected even as his cheeks flush a pretty pink.

Bucky looks up at the rafters where his Clint is watching, rapt and breathing a little bit heavy, and Loki Clint is looking uncomfortable, like he might wanna run.

And Bucky can’t have that, so he points and says, “You. You want a mission?” Loki Clint has been looking for someone to give him orders, tell him what to do, since he woke up with an aching head and a whole pile of self-loathing.

Loki Clint cocks his head, considering, and says, “What do you mean?”

“Here’s a mission for you. Me and you, in the ring. Sparring, no weapons. Show me what you can do.”

For a minute, Bucky’s pretty sure Clint’s gonna say no, but then he drops from the ceiling, landing soundlessly like a cat. He still looks more curious than anything, and Bucky’s Clint follows him, still clutching half a bag of popcorn and landing a lot less gracefully.

“You sure?” Loki Clint asks, licking his lips. He eyes Bucky’s metal arm and says, “What if I hurt you? What if I lose control and --”

Bucky rolls his eyes and says, a little less cutting than he means to, “You lose control, I’ll deal with it. You won’t hurt anyone.”

Loki Clint takes him at his word, making his way to the sparring ring, and Bucky turns to follow. Circus Clint and Asshole Clint are already over there, bickering over who gets the best spot to watch, taking bets on who’s gonna win, and Disaster Clint and Lucky are even moving closer. He steals Current Clint’s popcorn on the way by.

“Hey,” his Clint says, grabbing his hand, once the others are out of ear shot. “Hey, uh, whatcha doing?”

Bucky laces their fingers together, backs Clint up against the wall, and kisses him, lazy and dirty and just long enough that someone behind them starts to catcall. 

When Clint is pliant and panting against him, Bucky breaks the kiss to say, “Just giving them something to work the edge off.”

Clint looks a little disappointed. “Oh,” he says. “I just thought you seemed pretty into getting your hands on them.”

Bucky presses absent, open-mouth kisses to the side of his neck and his throat and says, “That what you want?”

“Well,” Clint says, tipping his head and turning his eyes, humming a little like a cat. “I mean. It’s always life changing for me when you get your hands on me. And holy fuck, Bucky, watching you touch them is already so fucking hot…”

Bucky can kinda feel it, is the thing. Clint’s keyed up and practically vibrating out of his skin. His eyes are dark and wide the way they get after Bucky’s taken his time opening him up with his fingers and his mouth, making him beg for it and then not giving him what he’s begging for til he asks nice and pretty. And he’s also already hard and Bucky can feel it pressing against him and in the way his hips keep hitching forward, just a little.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Circus Clint moans from his spot near the ring. “If he doesn’t get his motherfucking hands on me, I’m gonna --”

“I said,” Bucky sharp, not looking away from his Clint’s wide eyes and pretty face. “Wait your fucking turn.”

His Clint grins, slow and wolfish, and says, “He’s kinda bratty, Buck. You might have to make him.”

*

Loki Clint fights like he’s been backed into a corner and knows he isn’t gonna make it out alive but wants to cause as much damage as he can before he goes. He’s vicious, his moves are erratic and hard to track, and he gets a few blows in before Bucky takes him down and pins him to the mat, face down with one arm twisted back.

Beneath him, he can feel Clint struggling, cursing and hissing and fucking panicking, so he stays pressed up against him, warm and steady and breathing careful and slow.

“It’s fine,” he says, pitching his voice low and soothing. “You’re fine. Breathe. It’s fine.”

“Fuck off,” Clint snarls and Bucky just laughs quietly.

“You’re always after someone to tell you what to do,” he says. “That’s all I’m doing.”

“You said we were gonna fight and you didn’t even hit back,” Clint snaps.

“Took you down though.”

Clint just hisses and struggles against him for another minute and Bucky waits him out, waits until he feels Clint slowly, carefully, relax into the mat and against Bucky’s weight.

He’s still breathing raggedly but Bucky lets him turn over, still staying above him, caging him in and keeping his focus. “You good?”

Clint’s not good. He’s falling apart, Bucky can see it. It’s a similar look to the way Bucky’s Clint gets when he wakes up screaming, remembering this, only it’s sharper, fresher. Bucky doesn’t know how to soothe away the edges but fuck, he wants to.

He keeps his hands bracing Clint’s shoulders, holding him together in hopes that he can keep him from falling apart.

Clint stares up at him with wide, desperate eyes, and says, “Tell me what to do. Just… Just tell me what the fuck to do.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Bucky tells him, gentle. 

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and says, voice cracking, “Please.”

And then, Circus Clint says breathily, “Oh fuck, me next, I’m next, do me next.”

Bucky looks up at him, bouncing on his heels at the edge of the ring, falling apart in a different way than the Clint beneath him but just as raw, just as ragged, an impatient mix of brattiness and desperation and need to please.

It breaks Bucky’s heart a little but knowing that the version of Clint he knows and loves now was ever this desperate for someone’s touch, for someone’s approval.

He glances at his version of Clint, just to check in, just to be sure that this is okay, and his Clint flashes a bright grin and tosses him a coil of rope.

“Daddy issues,” he says again with a negligent shrug. “I told you.”

So Bucky gets up and grabs the rope, saying, “Thought I told you to wait your turn,” as he advances on Circus Clint, who’s pupils dilate instantly as his mouth falls open, lips swollen from the way he’d been biting them a moment before.

He glances from Bucky’s face to the rope and back again and stammers, “You can’t be serious.”

Bucky just holds the rope and lifts an eyebrow and waits until Clint hesitantly holds out his wrists. “If you can’t do what I say,” Bucky tells him, and he hears Clint’s breathing pick up, coming fast and hard. “Then I’m gonna have to make you.”

“Shit,” Circus Clint breathes, eyelashes fluttering as he swallows hard. 

“You want me to touch you, you’re gonna have to wait your turn,” Bucky continues, tying the knots tightly but not tight enough to leave a mark. His Clint could get out of them in a matter of seconds if he wanted to and he’s willing to bet this younger version can too, if he really wants to.

By the way he’s panting, Bucky doesn’t think he does.

“You think you can do that for me?” Bucky asks, tugging the knots to test them. “Be good for me?”

Clint’s already nodding wildly before Bucky’s finished, stammering as he says, “I can do it, I will. I’ll be good.”

Bucky smiles, slow, and says, “I guess we’ll see.”

And then he slips the rope into a D-ring set into the wall, tugging it until Clint’s wrists are above his head, shoulders straining a little, braced against the wall.

“You’ll be quiet?” Bucky asks him, tying off the rope. “I don’t want to have to make you.”

For a moment, he thinks Clint’s gonna manage it -- he’s gonna keep his mouth shut. It’s too much, though, and when he starts to speak, it’s like a dam burst, words stumbling out of his mouth. “How will you make me,” he says. “With your dick? Because I swear, Bucky, I’m so good at it, you’ll see, I’m -- I’ll be so good. You can fuck my mouth and I’ll be so quiet, I will, and --”

Bucky takes Clint’s face in both hands, holding firmly until Clint closes his mouth, teeth clicking together, and then he says, “Don’t make me gag you.”

He feels Clint swallow against the palms of his hands but he keeps his mouth shut, so Bucky smiles at him approvingly. “Good boy,” he says, rough, and Clint grinds his teeth together but can’t quite muffle a soft, desperate sound.

Disaster Clint sidles up beside him and says, “Popcorn?”

At first, Bucky thinks Circus Clint is going to say something snide and cutting but he seems to reconsider, opening his mouth and letting Disaster Clint feed him.

“He needs to have some fucking self-respect,” Asshole Baby Assassin Clint sneers, and Bucky… well, he can’t really let _that_ stand. Sure, the youngest Clint could use some self-control, could learn to hide his desperation a little bit because who knows who’s gonna walk by and wanna take advantage of how clearly desperate he is for affection, attention, physical contact.

But there’s nothing fucking wrong with asking for what you want and maybe that’s a lesson Asshole Clint needs to learn.

He stops sneering at Circus Clint when Bucky stalks closer, looking a little wary but refusing to back down, which is a quality Bucky is glad to see has survived all these years and is still present in his own version of Clint.

“Get in the ring,” he says to Asshole Clint, silky and dark and clearly used to being obeyed.

Asshole Clint swallows hard. “What? No. You were fighting him --” he gestures to Loki Clint, who’s curled up with Lucky now, still looking a little shaky. “I’m not gonna --”

Bucky’s never had a problem intimidating people who are taller than him -- he got a lot of practice with Steve, back in the war, and it doesn’t take long for Asshole Clint to falter, swallowing again, before saying, “Fine. Whatever. I can take you any day of the week, old man.”

He climbs into the ring and Bucky follows.

He really isn’t in the mood for showing mercy, and this Clint is all frenetic energy, lacks Bucky’s Clint’s self-discipline. Telegraphs the shit out of his moves. And it’s so fucking easy to take him down, again and again and again until Clint is sweaty and panting and doesn’t bother to get up.

“You done?” Bucky asks, standing over him.

Clint tips his head back, sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, and growls, “Make me.”

Bucky drops to the mat, knees on either side of Clint’s hips. Before Clint can rear up and try to shake him off, Bucky grabs him by the wrists, yanking his arms up over his head and pinning him there with both hands, his thighs easily holding the rest of him down.

They’re close this way, Bucky practically lying on top of him, Clint panting beneath him, and it was a bit of a calculated risk. Bucky knows just how to spar with his Clint in a way that’s just a little dirty, just a little bit too much physical contact to get Clint worked up without taking the edge off. Apparently Asshole Clint responds the same way.

He drags his gaze from Bucky’s, down to his mouth, and then jerks it back up again and spits, “You gonna do something or just sit there?”

Bucky lifts an eyebrow and says, “What did you have in mind?”

“Fuck him,” Circus Clint calls. “Fuck him, Bucky, fuck the sass right outta him, c’mon.”

Bucky looks up in time to see Disaster Clint shove an entire handful of popcorn in Circus Clint’s mouth and he looks a bit sheepish when he catches Bucky’s eyes.

“He’s got a dirty mouth, sorry,” Disaster Clint says. He hesitates a moment and then looks down at Clint pinned between Bucky’s thighs, and adds, “But if you’re looking for suggestions, it was a pretty good one. I mean. If your Clint doesn’t mind.”

“Oh no,” Current Clint calls. “No, I do not mind. No. Not at all. I mean. As long as everyone is consenting here, I totally consent. One hundred percent. Dude. This is gonna be jerk off material for the rest of my life.”

With that enthusiastic consent, Bucky looks back down at Asshole Clint who’s doing his best to screw his face up into a scowl. “I don’t know,” Bucky says mildly. “I don’t think he’s into it.”

Beneath him, Clint tries to twist up against him, ostensibly to buck him off, but all it manages to do is rub his hard cock against Bucky’s thighs and, hell. He’s up for that.

“Fuck you,” Clint says sharply.

“You’re gonna have to ask nicer than that,” Bucky tells him.

Clint goes very still, barely breathing, glaring up at him, but his eyes are fixed more on Bucky’s mouth than his eyes now. “Well?” he snaps, impatient and twisting up against him again. It’s less an attempt to get Bucky off him now. “Do something or get off me.”

Bucky leans close, lips not quite brushing Clint’s mouth, before sliding back to nuzzle his ear and say gently, “You want me to do something, sweetheart, you’re gonna have to beg.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says again, panting.

“Nothing wrong with being a little desperate,” Bucky tells him. “You want me to show you?”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“Hmm,” Bucky hums, all disappointment, and he lets go of Clint’s wrists, goes to sit up and he’s not surprised at all when Clint reaches out with a frustrated sound and grabs his shirt. He hesitates there, not quite touching him, not saying anything at all, and Clint lets his head fall back and hit the mat hard.

“You can’t just -- you’re being an asshole,” Clint says.

“Am I?” Bucky can’t help the amused tone.

“ _Yes_.”

“Well, if you want me to behave differently,” Bucky says, entirely reasonably, “You know what you have to do.”

“No,” Clint snaps, breathing ragged. “I’m not gonna beg, I’m not.”

He hums again, just as disappointed, letting his gaze wander over Clint’s flushed face, his dark eyes and messy hair, the way his chest rises and falls with his wild panting. “That’s unfortunate,” he says. “Because I was really looking forward to marking you up a little.”

Clint’s breath catches, just a little, and he swallows but doesn’t say a thing.

“I know how easily your throat bruises,” Bucky says, rough, reaching out but not touching, letting his fingers nearly graze Clint’s pounding pulse point. “I’d mark you up with my teeth and then kiss it better. I’d hold you still for me and take your cock down my throat and suck you until you couldn’t help but beg me to let you come. But I wouldn’t, not until I worked you open with my tongue, until you were frantic and begging for my cock, and then I might consider fucking you, if you asked prettily enough.” He drags his gaze back up to Clint’s eyes and says, “I already know how pretty you look when you beg.”

Clint shoots a look over at Bucky’s version of Clint, whose mouth is open the tiniest bit as he breathes heavily while watching them, eyes dark and cheeks flushed. “I don’t beg,” Asshole Baby Assassin Clint says, but there’s a note of uncertainty in his voice.

“I’d beg,” Circus Clint breathes. “God, I’d beg so hard, Bucky.”

Bucky’s Clint shrugs, unrepentant. “No shame in begging,” he says, clearing his throat when his voice comes out a little rough. “And Bucky’s real good at making it worth it.”

“But if you don’t want it,” Bucky says, letting his metal fingertips trail down the side of Clint’s neck, barely touching. “That’s fine.”

Clint growls, twisting the hand he’s still got clutching Bucky’s shirt, and then jerking him down. Bucky could shake free easily, but he lets Clint pull him down into a furious, sharp kiss that’s all teeth and force. 

Bucky lets him have the kiss, returns it, even, just as fiercely, until Clint is panting and moaning into his mouth, still yanking at his shirt, demanding with his hands and his mouth, but Bucky doesn’t give him any more than that. He kisses him until Clint gives up, pulling away with a frustrated growl, and Bucky can feel how hard and aching Clint is against him but he ignores it, keeps him pinned with his thighs and his metal hand, still at his throat.

“You want something?” Bucky hums, and Clint hisses.

“Fucker,” he says.

Bucky nips at the line of his jaw, sharp, and then makes his way down the side of his neck, sucking and biting the bruises he’d promised, and Clint tips his head to the side, arching up into the touch. He’s still clinging to Bucky’s shirt with one hand, his shoulder with the other.

Bucky can feel him trying to move his hips, find any sort of friction, and he holds him still with his thighs and just sucks his way lazily down his neck, marking him up until every exhale sounds like a desperate little whine in the back of Clint’s throat.

“Need something?” Bucky asks, as he pushes a hand up under Clint’s shirt, watching the way his flush moves down his throat, the way his mouth falls open as his muscles clench up under Bucky’s hand.

“Touch me,” Clint demands, and Bucky pinches his nipple with a sudden twist that makes him arch his back with a shaky cry.

“Like that?” Bucky asks, all innocence, and Clint glares up at him.

“No,” he says. “Stop being a tease and jerk me off or let me go so I can do it myself.”

“ _That_ isn’t asking very nicely,” Bucky chides, before yanking Clint’s shirt up over his head and tossing it aside, letting him fall back to the mat.

“You’re such a dick,” Clint says, breathless and shaking but still trying his best to scowl.

Bucky licks at one nipple and then the other before dragging his teeth over it, and this version of Clint reacts just the same as Bucky’s version does -- arching up and crying out and clenching both hands in Bucky’s hair and holding on.

He even swears just as much, which only gets worse the longer Bucky plays with him, sucking and biting at him until Clint doesn’t seem able to string enough syllables together to get a proper curse word out. 

But he still hasn’t asked very nicely, so Bucky keeps up the lazy torture, moving lower, shifting so his thighs aren’t bracketing Clint’s hips anymore, dragging his jeans down so his cock is free -- flushed an angry red and hard and already leaking.

“Yes,” Clint says, voice cracking. “Yes, just touch me, just fucking --”

Bucky hums again, disappointed, and sucking bruises up the insides of Clint’s thighs, grazing the line of his hip with his teeth, and when he looks up, Clint’s eyes are shining with frustrated tears and his lips are swollen from being bitten.

“Just -- just -- _please_ ,” Clint says, words stumbling from his mouth, and once they start, it’s like a dam breaking. “Please, please, just touch me, please, I need -- I need you to touch me, please.”

Bucky smiles, slow and pleased, and says, “Touch you how?”

“With your mouth,” Clint begs. “I just -- I need your mouth on me. _Please_.”

“Good boy,” Bucky tells him, but before taking Clint into his mouth, he adds, “But you don’t get to come until I tell you to.”

“Who wants to bet me he lasts less than ten seconds?” Disaster Clint says from the sidelines and Current Clint jumps all over that bet.

Bucky doesn’t care though. He takes Clint’s cock into his mouth slowly, exploring with his tongue, finding all the familiar places he’s found thousands of times before. He knows just how Clint likes it -- how hard and how fast and how to wring broken noises from him, he knows what Clint sounds like when he’s about to come, and Bucky keeps it agonizingly slow. He brings Clint to the edge and backs him away from it with his teeth and his tongue, pulling him back gently again and again until his throat is aching and rough from swallowing Clint down.

And then, finally, when Clint is a trembling mess beneath him, when his breathing sounds wet and hollow, when his fingers are clutching needily at Bucky’s hair, and he says, voice broken, “Please. Please, please let me come. Please.”

“So pretty,” Bucky tells him, his voice rough from his aching throat. “You’re doing so good, Clint. Come for me.”

He tightens his grip on the base of Clint’s cock, licking under the head the way he knows Clint likes and it only takes a handful of seconds before Clint is coming and Bucky licks away what doesn’t land in his mouth. 

“So good,” he tells Clint, who’s got his eyes screwed shut as he breathes through it. “That was perfect, you’re so good.”

Around them, he can hear Circus Clint demanding to go next, Current Clint and Disaster Clint arguing over who lost the bet, but Bucky just focuses on the Clint underneath him, pressing sweet kisses to his cheek, his jaw, his mouth, the tip of his nose, the tracks down his temples from his frustrated tears, until Clint opens his eyes.

He looks a little out of it, sluggish and glazed over and blinking up at Bucky. “You want me?” he asks, clearing his throat. “I mean, if you want, I can --” He gestures clumsily with his hands and Bucky rolls his eyes fondly.

“I always want you,” he says gruffly. “But it’s fine. You’re fine.”

“Yeah,” Circus Clint calls. “Save some for the rest of us.”

Disaster Clint rolls a water bottle across the mat and says, “Hydrate, dude. It’s important.”

Bucky lets Asshole Clint up and he cracks open the bottle, draining half of it in three swallows before reluctantly offering it to Bucky. 

Bucky drinks it and, when he’s done, Clint says, with an exhausted grin, “You’re still an asshole though.”

“Never said I wasn’t,” Bucky laughs, reaching a hand down to help him up. Clint’s legs are clearly not quite up to the task of supporting him but Bucky helps him out of the sparring ring, until he’s sitting heavily on the pile of mats beside Disaster Clint, who solemnly hands him another water bottle, his cheeks puffed out with popcorn.

“Nice job,” he says to Bucky, flashing a bit of a dimple with his grin. “Nice form. 10/10, would watch you make younger me beg any time.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush and he’s suddenly intensely aware of the fact that he just sucked a younger Clint off in front of four other Clints and he feels wrong-footed for a moment but, well, hell. His Clint flashes him a toothy grin and a thumbs up and is very clearly incredibly into the entire thing and Bucky doesn’t hear anyone else complaining, so.

“I wasn’t done with you yet,” he says to Loki Clint, whose eyes go wide as he takes a quick step back.

“I don’t beg,” he says and he sounds fucking scared. Jesus Christ.

“Of course not,” Bucky tells him, keeping his voice soothing all the Brooklyn coming out. “I wouldn’t make you beg. Hell, I ain’t gonna touch you anyway you don’t want me to. We can just spar if you want or run Tony’s obstacle course.”

“If you’re not gonna fuck him,” Circus Clint says, sounding a bit aggravated. “Maybe you can fuck me instead. Just saying. I can’t feel my hands anymore and I don’t even care because I’d rather be feeling you instead.”

Current Clint elbows him sharply in the ribs and Circus Clint yelps before letting his head fall back against the wall with a moan. “This has gotta be against the Geneva Convention,” he says.

Bucky just ignores him because Loki Clint is watching him with careful, narrowed eyes, looking wary, studying Bucky’s face and then slowly dropping his gaze lower, and Bucky knows what he’s seeing. It’s very obvious that Bucky is hard -- sucking Clint off is never not gonna get him hard -- and he can see the mixture of hesitation and longing all over Loki Clint’s face.

So he waits him out.

Finally, Clint says, rough, “You’d be a hazard running a course in that condition.”

Bucky spreads his hands, makes himself as unthreatening as he can, and says, “If you want, you’re welcome to do something about it.”

Clint’s eyes flash back up to Bucky’s and he says, “That what you want?”

Bucky takes a careful step away from him and says, “I know what it feels like, being fresh from having your mind fucked with. I know how desperate you are for someone to tell you what to do, to give you a mission, to put everything into a context that makes sense. I ain’t gonna do that, Barton. You want me, you can have me, but you’re going to have to tell me exactly how you want me to touch you, or even better -- you can touch me. You’re in control.”

Loki Clint steps closer, careful, his eyes wide and his mouth open the tiniest bit as he breathes heavily, eyes locked on Bucky’s shoulders, the side of his neck. “I can touch you?” 

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says, soft. “You can do anything you want with me.”

Clint takes another small step closer. “What if I hurt you?”

“Couldn’t if you tried.”

It’s different than it was with the younger version of Clint -- there’s no violence, no anger, no need to try to put Bucky in his place. This version of Clint is so much more damaged, so much more aware of the harm he can cause, so consumed with the idea that he can hurt if he’s not careful, that he kisses with a heartbreaking amount of care.

It’s bitter and sweet at the same time, like he’s lost his footing and he’s trying to find it in the dark, licking at Bucky’s mouth and too uncertain to press forward. He doesn’t reach out touch, either, like he’s afraid of causing more harm.

But Bucky knows this Clint -- has seen him every time his Clint wakes screaming from a nightmare. So he’s careful and sturdy and sweet and waits for Clint to catch his balance and come closer.

He does, eventually, when the kiss slips deeper, when Bucky finally coaxes Clint’s tongue into his mouth. Clint melts into it, melts against Bucky, and then, when he finally lets himself touch, his hands are shaking and greedy with it.

It’s like he needs to touch as much of Bucky as he can, as fast as he can. His hands start at Bucky’s chest, but then he’s sliding them up to his neck, the back of his head, tangling up in his hair and tugging before sliding back down his shoulders and his arms again, slipping around to Bucky’s back and twisting up in his sweater. He’s pushing close, almost frantic with it, and Bucky slips both hands to Clint’s hips and holds him steady.

“You’re okay,” he says, when Clint breaks the kiss to pant wildly against Bucky’s temple. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere. Tell me how you want me.”

“I don’t,” Clint says, sounding small and lost. “I don’t understand how I get to have you at all.”

Bucky cups Clint’s face with both hands, holding firmly, and says, staring up into his eyes. “You are not what you were made into. You are not what they made you do. The blood you think is on your hands is on theirs. You deserve this, with me, and probably better. And you can have me any way you want me.”

Clint swallows shakily, licks his lips and then, after studying Bucky’s eyes for a long moment, says quietly, almost like it’s a question, “I want you on your knees for me.”

Bucky drops to his knees without hesitation, licking his lips and completely and totally willing and into the idea of sucking this version of Clint off -- of letting him fuck his mouth if that’s what he wants. Fuck knows, it’s what Bucky wants, now that he’s thought about it, the idea refusing to leave his mind.

But instead, Clint falls to his knees as well, kissing Bucky again, deeper this time, some of the frenetic energy leaving his hands as he runs them slowly and carefully linking his fingers with Bucky’s.

“I want to get you ready with my mouth,” Clint says finally, barely a whisper against Bucky’s ear. “And then I want to watch one of the others fuck you.”

It’s like all the air gets punched clear out of his chest and it takes Bucky an embarrassingly long moment to catch his breath enough to say, “Yeah. Yes, if that’s what you want.”

Clint pulls away, studying his face, looking for some sort of consent there, Bucky knows, and he lets himself look as eager for it as he feels.

“Lay down,” Clint says, voice growing stronger, more steady. “On your front.”

Bucky does, making a show of it, stretching undoing his jeans, shoving them down with his underwear until they’re tangled around his knees and then laying down, arching his back before settling with his chin on his folded arms. He’s got a great view like this, all four Clints nearby watching with similar expressions on their faces. He catches his Clint’s eyes and winks at him.

“You can make noise,” Loki Clint tells him, running a hand up the back of Bucky’s thigh. “You can even beg if you want to. I’m sure they wanna hear you.”

Bucky hums in agreement, shifting a little because he was achingly hard before this Clint got him into this position and now, it takes a huge amount of self control to keep from rubbing himself against the mat beneath him.

And then Clint is settling between his thighs and, a moment later, licking his way inside.

Bucky meant to give everyone a show. He meant to show off, to play it up, to give them something worth watching.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, forgetting all about making it a show as he arches and pushes back against Clint’s mouth. He and his Clint have done this before, countless times, and he’s always loved it, but it’s a different sort of feeling, being held open, licked and sucked this way, with others watching. And the fact that the others watching are all different versions of Clint just makes it weirder and hotter and almost overwhelming.

“So good,” Clint says, stroking his ass with one hand before pushing his tongue inside. Bucky is panting, cursing and shaking and unable to look away from Circus Clint, who’s staring and looking glassy-eyed, clearly hard and leaking in his pants. Bucky’s Clint looks flushed and ruffled and rubs almost absently at his hard cock through his jeans, unable to look away from Bucky, spread out and breathless as Clint opens him up with his tongue.

Disaster Clint hands Loki Clint another water bottle without looking away from Bucky, clears his throat, and tosses some lube up onto the sparring ring. “Always be prepared,” he says, his voice rough and cracking.

“Beg for me,” Loki Clint says, quiet, his teeth nipping at Bucky’s ass as a slicked up finger presses firmly, deeply inside, brushing his prostate.

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Bucky says in a breathless rush, pushing back against Clint’s hand, trying to take him deeper. He’s on his hands and knees now and he doesn’t remember when that happened but he needs more of Clint inside him, and the second finger Clint pushes inside isn’t enough. He tries to beg like Clint wants him to but the words get all jumbled and it gets worse when Clint licks inside him between his fingers with a soft, greedy sound as he stretches Bucky open.

Bucky’s going to come. No one’s even touched his dick and he’s going to come. How is he gonna make his way through the three remaining Clints if he comes now, with Clint’s tongue inside him, his fingers -- his fingers --

“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, shaking apart. “Clint, I’m gonna --”

And Clint pulls away, saying, “We can’t have that, Barnes. The others haven’t had their turns yet.”

“Asshole,” Bucky says, laughing shakily.

Baby Assassin Clint, still looking wrecked, points an accusing finger and says, “Serves you right, asshole.”

“If we’re talking about assholes,” Circus Clint says, full out pouting now. “I have one and no one’s touched it yet. Or licked it.”

Current Clint is laughing too much to say anything at all.

“Pick one,” Loki Clint says, quiet. “Which one do you want inside you?”

Bucky wants them all inside him, if he’s being honest. Or any of them. Anyone. He doesn’t care. He just needs someone inside him and he needs to come and he brought this on himself, really.

“Him,” he says, jerking his chin at Disaster Clint, who’s taking care of everybody, who carries bottles of water and lube on the off chance someone gets dehydrated or, worse, is about to engage in sexual acts without proper lubrication. Who’s currently sitting quietly beside his sleeping dog, looking like he doesn’t think he deserves to be there. His hair is still a mess and he’s got that bandaid over his nose, that purple bullseye over his heart, and he’s been quieter and heavier than any of the others and Bucky just… Just wants to hold him close until all the broken pieces fit back together.

He remembers a Clint like that -- back when he first met his Clint, covered in bruises with more scar tissue than anybody knew about, hiding out in Bed-Stuy and half convinced there wasn’t much reason for sticking around, other than his half blind mutt.

Bucky had taken his time drawing that Clint out but he knows he hasn’t got the time with this one.

“Good choice,” Loki Clint says, absently running the palm of one hand down Bucky’s spine, to the small of his back. “He’s been desperate to know what it’s like to be with you since he realized some lucky version of us somehow gets to be.”

“C’mere,” Bucky says, coaxing, eyes locked with that version of Clint, who blinks across the mat at him and then looks over his shoulder like a goddamn cartoon character expecting Bucky to be talking to someone behind him.

And then, instead of looking back at Bucky when he realizes that, yeah, he’s the one Bucky’s talking to, he looks at Current Clint, like he’s not sure this is okay.

“You’re not mad?” he asks Current Clint, who’s stretched out with his knees spread, looking flushed and pretty with dark, glazed eyes and swollen lips.

“Are you kidding?” he says, voice a little slurred, soft around the edges. “It’s like my birthday.” He turns his head to look at the version of himself he was only a handful of years ago, and says, “I want to see what he looks like, begging you to fuck him.”

Disaster Clint breathes out shakily but it’s all the reassurance he needs, carefully extracting himself from his sleeping dog and making his way onto the mat. “How do you -- how are we going to -- are you sure?”

Bucky looks at Loki Clint because this is his show, and that Clint says, “On your back, Bucky. Is this okay?”

But Bucky’s already on his back, reaching greedy hands out for Disaster Clint, who’s hovering just out of reach. “Yes,” he says, impatient and trying to hide it. “Yes, this is great. Perfect, even. Just -- I just need you inside me. If you want to. Please, please want to.”

“Yeah,” Disaster Clint says huskily, and then he’s on his knees, undoing his jeans, already shaky in a way that reassures Bucky that he wants it at least as much.

Loki Clint hands him the lube and then sits back to watch, eyes narrow and pretty and focused on the way Disaster Clint touches the inside of Bucky’s thighs, almost reverent, sliding up to his hips.

It seems to take forever before Bucky can feel him pressing inside, careful and slow, and he lets his head fall back, clenching his teeth to keep from cursing too violently and making Clint think he’s doing anything wrong at all. It’s so right, it’s so perfect, Bucky just needs more of it, harder and faster. But it’s sweet this way, having someone be this careful with him. Bucky can’t remember the last time anybody worried so much about being careful with him.

Clint buries himself deeply inside Bucky, who pulls his knees up to take him that much deeper, and when Clint shifts to brace both hands on either side of Bucky’s head for balance, Bucky takes his hands, lacing their fingers together, palm-to-palm.

It’s unbearably intimate and it makes Bucky’s chest ache in a way that almost drowns out how very badly he’s aching to come.

“I’m going to keep you,” Bucky tells him, soft and meant only for his ears. “When you go back where you come from, even if you don’t remember this, I’m going to find you soon and the very first time I see you, I’m gonna know. You’re it for me. And you’re gonna deserve so much more than me but I’m gonna love the shit out of you and do my best to keep you for the rest of my goddamn life. I promise.”

Clint doesn’t say anything, just ducks his head to muffle a small sound in Bucky’s temple before be begins moving inside him, fucking him with a steadily increasing rhythm until it’s just as hard and deep as Bucky likes it.

It’s overwhelming and perfect and he’s so strung out and desperate for it, and Loki Clint wanted him to be loud, so Bucky doesn’t bother trying to muffle his cries as he arches into it, begs for more of it. Clint kisses him, a messy, filthy kiss as he fucks him through his cries, letting go of Bucky’s hands to tangle his fingers in Bucky’s hair instead.

Bucky reaches out blindly for something to hold onto, to keep him grounded. If he was in bed, he’d be twisting his hands in the bedsheets, but he’s not, and for a moment, he feels off balance and totally overwhelmed without any sort of touchpoint.

And then Loki Clint takes his metal hand, lacing their fingers together and holding tightly, like he understands Bucky’s momentary panic that he was losing himself in this.

And of course he’d understand the fear of getting lost in something.

Bucky turns his head to look at him, at their fingers tangled together, at the way Loki Clint is just sitting there, watching with rapt attention as Disaster Clint moves inside him, muffling his moans and cries against Bucky’s shoulder.

Clint drags his cock against Bucky’s prostate again and again and again and Bucky comes without anybody ever touching his dick which is a tragedy in so many ways but Bucky is too busy arching into it, cursing at how it catches him off guard, crashing over him.

It’s violent and overwhelming and amazing and Bucky loses control of his mouth a little bit, all manner of filth pouring out. He begs Clint to fuck him harder, deeper, to stay with him, to mark him up, to hurt him, to pull his hair. He begs Clint to come inside him and then, moments later, when Clint does, he pants raggedly and holds him through it, feeling fucked out and shaky and rubbed raw inside and out in the best way.

“Holy shit,” Circus Clint says, faint, apparently at a loss for words.

Bucky just lays there, Clint still buried deep inside him as he strokes his hand down Clint’s back, soothing him as he shakes.

“You’re good,” Bucky tells him. “You’re so good.”

He says it to the Clint on top of him, inside of him, and to the Clint who’s still holding his hand, content to watch without letting anybody touch him, to regain that much bodily control and autonomy.

“Someone get that Clint some water,” Assassin Clint calls, sounding just as affected as everyone else.

“On it,” Loki Clint says, squeezing Bucky’s hand once before letting go and making his way to the watercooler. He comes back with water for Disaster Clint and Bucky too, and then says, “You gotta get cleaned up. Both of you.”

“Hmm,” Bucky hums, tipping his head back, looking at Circus Clint who’s hanging limply from the rope still binding his wrists, looking wrecked, needy and flushed. “I think it’s finally his turn. And I want him to clean me up with his mouth.”

“Oh god, oh yes, oh please,” Circus Clint babbles, twisting against the ropes. “I’ve been good. I’ve been so good. And I’ll be better. I’m so good with my mouth, Bucky, you’ll see.”

Disaster Clint presses a clumsy kiss to the corner of Bucky’s lips and says, “Thank you,” and “I’m pretty sure he wants to be kept, dude. Probably forever. I would want it.”

Bucky catches his hand as he goes to pull away and says, “Just wait for me.”

Clint smiles, a little uncertain, and says, “Just don’t take too long.”

“Bucky,” Circus Clint snaps, twisting his hands against the ropes still holding them above his head. “I’m being patient, I’m waiting my turn, but I swear to fuck…”

“Hush,” Bucky tells him, but it’s gentler than before, because Clint really has tried his best, has been so much more patient even than Bucky expected. He slips out of the ring and goes to him, cupping Clint’s jaw with one hand and using the other to tug at the knots, freeing his hands.

“What do I have to do?” Clint asks, leaning back against the wall, keeping his hands crossed at the wrist and above his head. “Do you want me to beg? Do you want me to boss you around? Do you want back flips? Handstands? Do you want a blowjob while I do a handstand? I don’t know if I can do that but fuck, I’m willing to give it a try if you are.”

“Clint,” Bucky says, quiet, cradling his face between both hands, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones. “I don’t need any of that. You are enough.”

Clint’s eyelashes flutter and Bucky can feel him trying to jerk away, to shy away from that level of vulnerability, but he doesn’t let go, not until Clint finally gives up and makes eye contact again, the desperate neediness of before replaced by an uncertain sort of wariness.

“I’m more than enough,” Clint says, trying to muster up some brassy bravado. “I’m the Amazing Hawkeye. Best archer in the whole world. I’m --”

“You’re enough. Just as you are. Not standing on your head or doing cartwheels or dressed up in sequins and greasepaint. You don’t need to work for it, sweetheart. Not this. You’ve just gotta wait your turn and you did that so well.”

Clint swallows and falls back on his heels, catching his balance, and letting his hands fall to his sides. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Clean me up,” Bucky tells him. “And then I’m gonna fuck you.”

Clint grins, slow and sweet, and says, “Don’t you need some recovery time, old man?”

“Try me and see.”

Clint falls to his knees and he was right before -- he is good with his mouth. He licks at Bucky’s cock with single minded enthusiasm, humming low in the back of his throat, needy and soft, and Bucky’s over-sensitive. It hurts in the best way and he’s got a super soldier’s recovery, so he can feel his dick twitching, growing hard again in Clint’s mouth, and he can probably feel Bucky growing heavier on his tongue.

He moans a little, taking Bucky deeper, coaxing him with his mouth and his tongue, one hand wrapped around the base of Bucky’s cock, the other one trailing up his inner thighs and through the mess Disaster Clint left there.

It takes a pretty short amount of time before Bucky is hard again, and he’s got both hands tangled up in Clint’s hair, holding him still and lazily fucking his pretty mouth, when Clint pulls away and looks up at him, panting. 

His lips are swollen and wet and Bucky wants to kiss him, but before he can pull him up to do it, Clint says, husky, “I’m not done yet.”

Then he leans down further and drags his tongue up Bucky’s thighs, licking the come from them, sucking soft bruises into the sensitive skin there, bruises that Bucky knows will fade before Clint’s done.

It’s tender and sweet and filthy at the same time, and then he says, “Turn around, hold onto that rope.”

Bucky does, wrapping the rope he’d used to bind Clint up around his forearms and his fists, bracing himself, but he’s still not prepared when Clint licks at the mess Disaster Clint left inside him.

Bucky is over sensitive and each brush of Clint’s tongue and mouth sends shockwaves through his nervous system, shocks of electricity that he can feel all the way up his spine and straight down to the soles of his feet and he’s so fucking glad he’s got the ropes around his forearms to brace himself on because his legs nearly give out.

And then Clint’s slipping two fingers inside and Bucky is already so loose and wet so it’s easy -- Bucky’s always been easy for him, but he can’t help crying out, trying to muffle it against his arms.

It’s a lost cause a moment later when Clint starts gently fucking him with his fingers, licking around and between them, fingers brushing over his prostate with each movement.

It’s too much and not enough and Bucky loses himself in it, breathing hard and bending forward to make it easier, so Clint’s tongue can slip deeper inside. He didn’t mean to beg him -- didn’t want to give this version of Clint the goddamn satisfaction, but, hell. 

Clint’s always been good with his mouth and Bucky’s willing to give validation where it’s due.

Finally -- fucking finally -- Clint falls back on his heels and Bucky turns around to find him looking up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, blown pupils, and a red and swollen mouth.

“Is that good?” he asks, voice so rough, it almost sounds painful. “Is that enough?”

“Get up here,” Bucky growls, because if Clint doesn’t believe him that he’s enough, just as he is, no handstands and sequins and greasepaint required, then Bucky’s gonna show him.

Clint stumbles to his feet -- it’s graceless and somehow more honest than all of his circus moves have been -- and Bucky tugs his hoodie off, shoves his pants down, and says, “Hold that fucking rope.”

He wraps the same rope around Clint’s forearms, up around his wrists, and doesn’t knot it -- just presses it into Clint’s hands and tells him to hold it for balance. And then he grabs Clint by the thighs and lifts him up, pinning him against the wall, until Clint’s legs are wrapped around his waist.

And then, finally, Bucky kisses him, a filthy slide of teeth and tongue that’s gonna bruise his mouth and the thought of it makes Bucky growl just a little and kiss him harder.

“Give me the fucking lube,” Bucky says, holding one hand out while Circus Clint beams at him, wiggles obscenely against him.

“Don’t need it, Buck, just fuck me, I wanna feel it, I want it to hurt.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky snaps, and then someone -- Disaster Clint, probably, who’s always prepared -- slides the lube into his hand. He slicks up his fingers and -- gently, carefully, like Clint is fragile and easily breakable, slides first one finger and then two inside him.

He can feel the way Clint tenses up against him and he’s willing to bet it’s not because he minds the stretch of it.

When Bucky first met Clint, he hadn’t been used to being treated with care, like he was a breakable thing, had shied away from gentleness. Had thought touching was always meant to hurt and if it didn’t, it wasn’t something he was good enough for.

So Bucky strokes and stretches Clint with a careful sort of concern until Clint is moving against his hand, melting against his chest, twisting his hands in the ropes and panting brokenly against his shoulder. He waits until Clint is boneless with want, until he has forgotten that he ever wanted this to hurt. He waits until all Clint can focus on is how very, very badly he needs Bucky inside him.

And then, pinning Clint to the wall, he pushes inside him, slow, so Clint has no choice but to feel it.

He’s still for a long moment after he’s gone as far inside as he can, waiting for Clint to adjust to it -- the stretch of it, the feeling of being pinned here, held completely still, with no room for his usual acrobatics. He waits until Clint lifts his head up off his shoulder and meets his gaze, until they breathe together for a moment, connected and vulnerable and _enough_.

And then he starts fucking him hard because if Clint wants it to hurt, then hell. Bucky’s willing to give him what he’s after.

Any part of Clint that had intended to make this into a show of flexibility and stamina is overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. All Clint can do is hold onto the ropes for balance and keep his legs tight around Bucky’s hips and tip his head back, unable to help making desperate, keening cries as Bucky moves inside him.

Bucky holds his thighs with one hand and slips the other between them, wrapping it around Clint’s cock and squeezing just a little too hard.

“Come all over me,” he says, gravelly and rough. “And then you’re gonna have to clean me up again.”

“Oh fuck, oh yes, _please_ ,” Clint says and Bucky laughs as Clint comes all over his hand, his stomach and his chest.

“Come inside me,” Clint tells him, when he can speak again, though his voice is hazy and soft around the edges. “You won’t have to clean me up, I want you to make me dirty.”

“Fuck,” Bucky hisses as he comes inside him, and it’s too much and too soon and it almost hurts but in the best way, and when his legs go boneless and shaky, Circus Clint slides his feet down to the floor and carefully takes Bucky down with him, until they’re sprawled together and Circus Clint is licking him clean while Disaster Clint coaxes him to drink water and hydrate.

“You okay?” Current Clint asks, cuddling up beside him, stroking his sweaty hair out of his face, smiling sweetly down at him and kissing the corner of his lips. “You did so good, Bucky.”

“Still your turn,” Bucky tells him and his Clint laughs.

“I get to have you for the rest of your life,” he says. “I don’t need a turn now. But I think you need a nap, Buck.”

Bucky means to take care of his Clint and all the other Clints too, but he’s exhausted and his brain is spacey and Clint is probably right. So he lets all the Clints gather him up and make him decent and bundle him off to bed.

*

All the Clint copies are piled up like puppies, sleeping together in Bucky and Clint’s living room, when Bucky wakes some time later. He had his Clint are tucked into bed and Bucky’s entire body is aching, though nothing seems terribly sprained or strained and he’s more grateful than ever for his super serum recovery.

When he wakes, he rolls over to find his Clint curled up against the pillow, watching him and looking thoughtful.

“Which one do you like best?” Clint asks, and Bucky is not awake enough for this conversation, so instead of answering, he rolls over until he’s got Clint tucked up nice and safe beneath him.

When he’s sure he’s got Clint nice and secured, he props himself up on his elbows and pretends to think about it until Clint starts to get squirmy. He laughs and ducks down to kiss him quiet.

“I like them all,” Bucky tells him. “Because I like you and they’re all parts of you. I’m partial to all your parts.”

He starts kissing his way to Clint’s jaw, then down his neck, marking up his collarbones, even as Clint tugs at his hair and says, “Even the needy, neurotic, assholey parts with daddy issues?”

“Mmm,” Bucky teases, sucking a mark on the side of his neck. “ _Especially_ the daddy issues.”

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Clint says, though he’s starting to sound breathless, starting to move restlessly beneath him.

Bucky lifts his head again, studying Clint’s face and seeing the uncertainty and the worry there. He smooths Clint’s hair back, trying to tidy his spectacular bedhead a little, and promises, “There’s never gonna be a side of you that I won’t love until the day I die.”

Clint bites his lip to hide a sweet smile and says, “Oh yeah? Prove it.”

“I think I just did,” Bucky says, pretending to growl. “Or did you forget the part where I nearly killed myself fucking four different versions of you within an inch of their lives?”

“I don’t know, Bucky,” Clint says, face lighting up with laughter. “Maybe I did forget. Maybe you oughta remind me.”

“You’re a brat,” Bucky grumbles, but he’s laughing as he flips Clint over so Clint’s on top, thighs on either side of Bucky’s hips, hands sliding up Clint’s sides, light enough to tickle. “If you’ve forgotten, I clearly didn’t do a good enough job, so let’s see if I can remind you.”

He tugs Clint down with both hands caught in his hair for a sweet kiss, licking at Clint’s laughter until it fades away to something softer, their breathing growing heavier together as Bucky does his best to remind Clint, again and again and again, that he is enough, that he doesn’t have to work for this, that Bucky’s gonna love him until the day he dies.

And when they finally stumble out of the bedroom together hours later, the puppy pile of Clint copies is gone.


End file.
